


flicker then fall

by cptsdstars



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: I mean did I really write the fic if I didn’t imply child abuse, Implied Child Abuse, M/M, anders is bipolar and hates his life, implied self harm, religious trauma, that good Christian guilt plot but adapted for the chantry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:46:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23752567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptsdstars/pseuds/cptsdstars
Summary: He kissed her in the gardenWhen the moon was shining brightBut she was a marble statue,And he was drunk that night
Relationships: Anders/Karl Thekla, Anders/Male Hawke
Comments: 10
Kudos: 14





	flicker then fall

**Author's Note:**

> Listen I was shown a character with religious trauma and expected not to do something about it??? Who do you think you are I am?

Justice did not split you into two halves. You did that long before the Wardens, the Circle, all on your own. 

Four months before your twelfth birthday you set the hem of your mother’s dress ablaze. You had been in one of your moods, bouncing off the walls, bored and under-stimulated in a destructive way that you should have grown out of by now.

“Mother!” You shouted, sitting on the floor just outside of the doorframe, “Look what I can do!”

Your mother, Maker bless her, had always listened to you, always cared about what you had to say or do. But the moment she dropped the pan onto the floor at the sight of the flame dancing around your hand, you knew you did wrong. 

She never told your father. Hid the burn marks across her ankles well, not that he would’ve noticed them anyway. 

You held it down, whatever it was. Drowned it in your lungs and kept it there hidden away. Mother had told you what may happen if it bubbles up out of you ever again. A fate worse than death in her eyes. 

You didn’t mean for it to happen. 

_ No one ever means to become a sinner,  _ the voice in your head replies. 

You were out with the other children in the village, running and screaming and pretending to be warriors. Slaying imaginary dragons with your wooden swords. 

You told your mother it was an accident. 

_ You were always a fantastic liar. _

One of the younger girls had fallen, scraped up her knees and her hands. Bright red blood stained the bottom of her dress and she began to sob. 

“Mother is going to have my head!” she wailed as some of the older girls tried to wrap up her hands as gently as they could. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the girl’s mother approaching, her fists clenched. You had to swallow around the lump in your throat. 

You pretended not to notice as the woman grabbed the girl too hard by the arm, pretended not to notice as she dragged her to the nearest enclosed space, pretended not to her the little girl’s wailing get louder. 

“What a fucking nightmare,” one of the older girls whispered. “Could you imagine?” 

You bit your tongue. Held the sickly hot feeling in your chest down as hard as you could. Trying desperately, hopelessly to choke it out. 

Most of the younger children had gone back to playing. You and a few of the older girls stayed put, drawing in the dirt, ears fixed on the barn doors. 

Then there was a slam, like something hitting the wall inside the barn. A second. A third. 

Before you could tell yourself to stop you were already shoving the doors open, coming face to face with a monster. Rage blinding, something awful boiling to the surface. 

You don’t remember what happened after that. Only flames and rage and a protective instinct that only comes after being in the same situation. You remember walking backwards into the street, watching the old barn go up in flames, holding on tightly to the little girl. 

Seeing your own father put two and two together as the fire you caused reflects in the darkness behind his eyes. 

No one was hurt. 

_ Physically at least, you fucking fool.  _

Then came the Circle. 

Whatever the part was that you split away from yourself when your mother had cried all those months ago, begging him to keep it hidden, was now in control. 

Anders didn’t talk. Anders was angry. Anders would bite the Templars, the senior mages, the other children around him.

_ My name isn’t Anders. _

But it is now. 

Seventeen years old, five years in the circle. Almost nothing to show for it besides a hoarse voice, new scars, and a fear of a god you never believed in in the first place. 

You learned your sole purpose is to repent. After being told for years that you were born a sinner, born a mistake, both in the fire that your hands can produce and the fire that engulfs your insides when you look at some of the other boys in your dorm.

Some days you repent. 

Sit on your knees in the bath house and dig your nails into your skin and scream until you can’t breathe through the steam that shields you from the rest of the world. 

You don’t feel like Anders then. You feel like the smaller half, the child you were when you were sitting in your house, waiting for your mother to dote over you because you were upset for some small silly reason. 

Other days you’re everything the maker hates. 

Wild and reckless and angry and brave. Braver than you ever felt against your own father. Nothing can hurt you when you’re rebelling. Not the Maker, not the Templars, not even yourself. 

You let yourself be reckless. While unable to sleep some nights you’d wake Karl, only a month or so away from his Harrowing, and sneak out into the garden with him. 

He had been there two years longer than you and he knew where the wine was hidden in the chantry. You’d steal it and drink it with him and maybe some girls and live like the children you weren’t ever allowed to be. 

Guilt would come next, hard and fast like the sunlight the next morning. An Enchanter would notice your sorry state, and your bravery and recklessness would come crashing back down along with a switch. 

“I like happy Anders,” Karl says, not knowing the next night would be his harrowing.

You take another deep swig of wine before smiling at him with all your teeth. “As opposed to what exactly?” 

His face falls, you roll your eyes. 

He reaches out and touches your arm, touches some raised flesh there you refuse to think about and you pull your arm away, pressing the wine bottle to his lips in return.

_ He’s right. You’re not very tolerable. _

You shake off the feeling and stand on wobbly feet, turning around and making your way to the center of the garden. Karl starts to say something, but gives up and starts to follow you. You feel him watching you with something adjacent to worry in his eyes. 

_ You don’t care.  _

For once you agree with the voice.

There’s a statue of a woman in the middle of the garden, surrounded by plants, flowers, high up on a pedestal. She’s watching the world below her, naked, beautiful. 

“What are you doing, Anders?” Karl whispers. “You’re going to be seen!” 

You realize as he’s talking to you that you’re climbing up the statue’s pedestal, no longer in control of your actions, but not willing to stop them either.

“Do you love me, Karl?” you slur, arm hanging around the neck of the stone woman. 

“Anders let’s go—“

“Do you love me?” you ask again, a little louder. 

“Yes!” Karl hisses. “We need to go—“

“See,” you sigh, running a hand across the statue’s face, “I don’t think you do.” 

“Anders…” 

“You love me when you think no one can see you. You love me when you know that no one knows how I moan your name into the night. You love me only when I’m in a good enough mood to fuck you!” You’re angry now; you love the feeling. 

You’re suddenly very hyper-aware of how bright the moonlight is, how easily you can be seen by the windows in the chantry. How easy it could be to scream and be caught. Or run into the night and be punished. 

_ You don’t care do you, Anders? _

“You can’t stand me.” You grin at Karl, a manic, wild smile, “Repent before your harrowing night, oh gentle mage. Lest the Maker abandon you to the wrath of demons.” 

Karl stares at you, his jaw clenched because he knows you’re right. You turn around and kiss the marble of the statue like she could kiss you back and take away your guilt. 

You have this same argument with Hawke, except there’s another, stronger, more opinionated voice inside your head. 

You don’t want Hawke to love that terrifying part of you but you may not have a choice. 

Justice screams whenever your hand brushes up against his, bubbles up guilt you’ve kept buried for decades. 

_ You’re losing sight of what’s important _ . Justice would hiss as you watch Hawke chug back a mug in a friendly competition with Varric. 

When you build up enough courage to kiss Hawke, Justice is silent. For the first time in years, he has nothing to say. He lets you control your fingers, your hands, your senses, and  _ oh Maker,  _ you feel. 

It’s not diluted sounds and distant touches. It's hot and angry and electrifying and real and you feel like you’re going to shake apart at every place that Hawke’s fingers rest on your skin. 

Then Justice visits in your dreams. Yelling at that small childlike part of you that sits in the dark on holy days and covers its ears and cries. 

_ He doesn’t love you. You’re a sinner. I’m here to keep you safe and no being under the sun will love a man who is as unrepentant as you.  _

_ “Shut up!” you scream. “I’m helping you!” _

_ You can’t help me if the maker strikes you down, apostate. We are here to help set the world right. Not to sin for pleasure.  _

_ “Leave!”  _

_ He doesn’t love you.  _

You’d like to think Justice didn’t get to you but on the other hand, he is you. So you spend the next night screaming at Hawke. 

Every mean thing you can think of, every horrible thought, every angry word you can think of pours out of your lips and on to the bedroom floor where you two were not even a day ago. 

Hawke says nothing; he just listens, presses his lips together at the biting remarks. 

“Well?” You hiss, ready to lose yet another love to the guilt you feel towards a god you’re sure doesn’t exist. 

Hawke sighs, brings his hands up to rest on your cheeks, they’re wet, you didn’t know. He rubs his thumb against your cheekbone and smiles softly. 

“I forgive you, Anders” 

You stumble backwards. “What?” 

Justice is silent, he’s upset. 

“I-I know I’m not The Maker, obviously, or a Templar or anything else that really matters to your faith but, clearly you’re holding on to a lot of anger and guilt and someone has to relieve you of all of that. Give it to me.” 

“Justice said-“

“Justice said I didn’t love you, I’m sure. He’s not me, he’s not you. You have your own thoughts and feelings and you can’t keep forgetting that.” 

Justice lets you have your fingers back. You hold on tight to the fabric of Hawke’s shirt, breathing in deep. He leaves you two be. 

“Anders,” Hawke hums into your hair, “I forgive you of all of your sins.” 

You cry, and not one voice within you objects. 


End file.
